


Put The Sugar On My Tongue

by The_Circadian



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Bets & Wagers, Coming In Pants, Coming Untouched, Food Kink, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Pining, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:08:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26889382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Circadian/pseuds/The_Circadian
Summary: Matt supposedly has an embarrassing issue with a specific flavor. Foggy doesn't believe him. A bet ensues that puts fifty bucks and Foggy's long hidden feelings on the line.
Relationships: Matt Murdock/Franklin "Foggy" Nelson
Comments: 21
Kudos: 148





	Put The Sugar On My Tongue

Foggy did not wake up thinking his day would be going this way, but a bet is a bet. 

He walks briskly down the sidewalk, humidity making his shirt stick to his skin. In his hands is a little cardboard box that he carries as carefully as a baby. The content of said box is the most beautiful confection his eyes had ever seen. When he picked it up from that trendy bakery he’d passed countless times in the last year, it almost hadn't looked real. Just a little too perfect to be actual food. 

It’s a cupcake, but that doesn’t seem to do it justice. It’s humongous, about the size of a large grapefruit. The red spongy cake is so dense and so ungodly red it looks as dangerous and as beautiful as a poison apple, the powder-pink buttercream frosting a thick dolloping swirl, dotted with delightfully round, almost cartoonish looking white sprinkles. It sits in its little individual box the baker had put it in like a prized signed baseball. And Foggy is bringing it back to Matt as instructed.

So maybe it was a little weird to be this interested in winning this _specific_ bet, but their friendship was always a little out there. They’d seen and heard firsthand a fair share of the sort of stuff you never speak of again from one another over their college rooming years. This would be one more thing to add to that bank if he’s wrong, but in this case Foggy is right, and he’s getting his money.

Because Matt is pulling his leg, he has to be.

It all began with breakfast this morning - their normal early morning coffee shared in the office reception area over whatever pastry Foggy had picked up that looked freshest at the little coffee shop on the corner. 

This morning it was a large cherry Danish. For Foggy at least. While Foggy in the last year had sampled just about every delicious thing the place made, Matt always asked for toast. Sometimes with butter. Or he had nothing at all. Foggy had grown up with a mother (and aunts, and a grandmother for that matter) who had a bit of an itchy spoon hand, and some of it had rubbed off on Foggy apparently, because he got a worried, sinking feeling in his stomach whenever Matt didn’t eat. And toast in his opinion just wasn’t a substantial breakfast for anyone unless they were ill. Foggy was self-aware enough about this familial tendency bestowed on him to mind his own business most of the time. But now he knew what kind of a life Matt led in the shadows, and the fact that he was burning thousands of calories a night and eating sad toast with a smear of butter for breakfast seemed even more wrong than before. And before he could stop himself, he suddenly wasn’t minding his own business.

“You eat like a monk, you know that right?" He said around a bite of pastry. "Live a little. Have a doughnut once in a while.”

Matt smiled slightly. “I have to watch it with sweets.”

“Yes, because you’re in such horrible shape.” Foggy scoffed. Foggy knows he himself is not a perfect ten, and honestly he doesn't mind his own physique. He jokes about it, but maybe he’s even a little handsome on a good day. But when Matt acts so oblivious to his own spectacular physical blessings it gets a tease, because come on.

“No, no,” Matt laughed. “It’s just… a lot for the senses.” He motioned to his eyes, covered by his shades.

Foggy pondered this. “Like, it hurts?”

“Not quite,” Matt grimaced a bit to himself and blew on his coffee.

“Well, what?” Foggy’s curiosity had its claws in him now. He had to know.

Matt blushed.

Holy shit.

“It’s embarrassing,” Matt protested sheepishly. “Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

“Dude, I have never wanted to know something more in my entire life. Come on.”

Matt cleared his throat and shook his head quickly. “Alright it’s your funeral, uh,” Matt sighed. "I can get turned on by certain flavors.” A pause. “Like a lot."

Foggy's mouth went dry. This was so much better and so much worse than Foggy had imagined.

"For the love of God, explain."

Matt was just getting redder by the second. "Don't swear." He laughed nervously.

"What does that even mean?"

Matt shifted. "Just what I said."

"So like you have a bite of a turnover and you jizz yourself?"

"Not a turnover. But you can't be too careful."

Foggy's mouth fell open. "No way."

Matt just shrugged.

"You’re messing with me. You are such a liar," Foggy laughed it out. He couldn't believe he entertained this.

When Foggy looked back over, Matt was staring in Foggy's direction, expression level.

"Wanna bet?"

And that was how Foggy found himself on a Tuesday morning walking back from the Upper East Side with a red velvet designer cupcake and a nervous feeling in his stomach that he told himself was from the coffee. The likelihood that this was a prank, and that all of this was an elaborate ruse to get Foggy to buy him a cupcake that cost an hour’s worth of minimum wage was extremely high. And Matt would laugh about it in the most annoyingly fond way for weeks. He would even share the cupcake with Foggy too, the decent son of a gun.

He can’t even possibly think about if he’s wrong for too long though. He’d be out $50 and a cupcake, but he’d also be about to see something that he knows won’t do anything for his long running, ever present but deeply hidden problem.

Because Foggy has always been a little more into Matt than he should be, even when they were awkward college kids and Matt was a string bean of a guy. As soon as they’d met, Foggy had even blurted out that Matt was attractive, something he still cringes about on many a late night when he can’t sleep. But beyond the genetic lottery Matt had won that always made him the handsomest guy in the room, Foggy quickly found Matt had a warmth in his smile that pulled anyone in to bask, and a gracefulness to his movements that would unexpectedly make Foggy’s breath catch in his throat.

With Foggy, Matt’s always leaned in close with no hesitation, has always casually taken his arm to let Foggy lead him, even the very first time he did so, without asking. And Foggy, who after a lifetime of generally being looked over at best and bullied at worst normally distrusted sudden touch, felt like Matt had always belonged this close to him. They had fallen into intimate friendship so quickly, so naturally, Foggy couldn’t help it; one horrible night after a particularly brutal semester, from across the booth out on a double date, Foggy realized with a thunderclap of heartbreak that he was jealous of the girl Matt had his arm around, and that was that.

He’d never make it weird. Of course. Foggy would never knowingly ruin what they had with his own senseless yearning. So he kept it tamped down, as carefully and consistently as possible, day in and day out, even and especially now with the whole Devil of Hell’s Kitchen thing. Even before Foggy knew his best friend was a vigilante, he worried about Matt more than the normal amount. Now the anxiety of every "see you tomorrow" possibly being their last, has Foggy biting back proclamations of devotion so often it’s almost unbearable.

On a purely base level, Matt is sporting some really nice muscles these days. Foggy deserves an award for his poker face. Or at least this cupcake.

Okay, so maybe the jittery feeling in his gut has nothing to do with coffee.

He makes his way up the stairs of the building on knees that feel weaker than they should, and comes through the door to find Matt out of his suit jacket and standing by the windows of the reception area that look down to the street. The stretch of Matt’s white button up shirt across his shoulders pulls Foggy’s eye just long enough for Foggy to make a practiced point of not staring as Matt turns his head just slightly. They aren’t expecting anyone and Karen has the week off and is out of town, so it’s just them. Foggy briefly wonders if, with those super senses, Matt had been listening to him coming down the street.

“Okay,” Foggy starts in as easygoing a tone as he can manage, slightly out of breath from the brisk walk up the stairs.

Matt’s hands are in his pockets and he’s composed in his posture in a graceful way that again leaves Foggy just amazed that Matt is, in his own words, “a terrible dancer.” It just doesn’t add up.

God, and that shirt _really_ fits him well. Damn. Even if this whole thing is a joke and nothing happens, he’ll be thinking about all of this for months. His imagination will supply something, heaven help him.

“Lock the door, please.” Matt says politely, turning toward the desk and Foggy. Something about those words sends a pang right through Foggy. He tries very hard to correct that and hear it in his head as unsuggestively as it was meant, but the damage is done. Even at its most innocuous, the phrase is pulling Foggy into a private space with Matt that has his heart squeeze dangerously.

Foggy turns their sign to “closed,” locks the door, and lowers and closes the blinds. When he faces Matt again, Matt’s face is so resolute it sends a chill through him. Matt’s mouth is a line.

“You ready?” Matt asks.

“Uh, yeah,” Foggy’s voice cracks. He clears his throat and repeats as nonchalantly as possible, but softer. “Yeah.”

Foggy brings over the box, sets it down gently on the desk, and steps back. Matt is rolling up his sleeves over the strong lines of his forearms with swift fingers and Foggy allows an indulgent moment to watch him before he begins to look around the room for an extra chair. He pulls it over in front of the couch and faces it towards the desk a few feet away. Because the couch would be too low and too far to be a good judge of this, obviously. This is a bet not an interview with a client.

Foggy sits. “So are you going to write the check out now, or just PayPal me?” He jokes, heart fluttering. He waits for Matt to smirk, for this to be over, and it’s not happening. Facing Matt this way suddenly feels too close, too fast, because Matt’s not backing down. Matt is just standing and regarding the box, touching the desk like he’s discreetly steadying himself. Foggy waits. How long is Matt going to stretch this out?

Matt opens the lid back with one finger, and sways back just slightly as the scent hits him.

Foggy is very suddenly out of jokes. He’s also out of breath. Matt is biting his lip.

“This is a bad idea.” Matt mutters as he finally sits down behind the desk, his voice rough in a way Foggy has never heard before. Color is rising to Matt’s cheeks.

This isn’t an act. Matt’s not this good.

Foggy tries so hard to hide the free falling feeling in his gut, but he swallows loudly in his ears, his heart rabbiting up to a hard, fast, thumping tempo. Matt takes the cupcake out of a box and pushes the box away and then carefully rests the cupcake down before him, regarding it like an unexploded bomb. He lets out a shivery breath, and that tamping down Foggy does every single day around him is impossible to sustain. It’s 11 o’clock in the morning, bright and high definition, and Matt Murdock – beautiful, wonderful Matt – is sitting a few feet away from him, breathing heavily out of his nose, and he’s obviously, undoubtedly turned on.

Foggy can’t see much from this angle of Matt from below the waist, but Matt is flushed, his expression a little bewildered and bordering on pain. He’s hovering over this little cake like it’s the hardest dare he’s ever taken on. A fine sheen of sweat is beginning to bead at his brow and his fists on either side of it are tellingly tight. And even though the view has Foggy’s mouth going dry and his palms going tingly, he falters. Because it feels like he’s on the edge of a cliff with Matt and they’re about to plunge over into the unknown at any moment. It’s a veil lifted that can’t be unlifted. And God knows how much Foggy has wanted to see Matt all flustered, only the two of them alone, but not this way - voyeuristic and unloving - and guilt and doubt creeps in. He feels bad. Whatever this is, no matter what Foggy may or may not secretly want, it’s not worth it if Matt is this uncomfortable.

“Hey,” Foggy says, his voice again humiliatingly squeaky at first, but he’s sincere. “If you don’t want to do this, it’s no problem. Just forget—”

Matt picks up the cupcake before Foggy can finish and takes a large bite that almost fills his mouth, and sets it back down in such a rush Foggy breathes out in surprise. Matt exhales at the same time, again through his nose, but with the tiniest whimper this time at the tail end. He takes off his glasses and drops them onto the desk and puts his head into his hand, covering his eyes as he chews, and then sucks in his breath like he’s been hit. His other hand is still a fist on the table, tight knuckles ghosting away the day old bruises there.

There’s a line of pink frosting on Matt’s upper lip that would under other circumstances be adorable, but in this instance it’s absolutely filthy looking. Matt swallows and mewls, and licks at it reflexively.

“A really bad idea,” he manages to add under his breath, as he sucks at his teeth and swallows.

Heat rises to Foggy’s cheeks so intensely it burns.

Matt roughly loosens his tie and unbuttons the top two buttons of his shirt, revealing the skin of his throat, highlighted softly with sweat. There’s the soft edge of a dark mark on his collarbone, peeking out from the edge of his open shirt. Foggy knows there’s almost certainly more marks healing on him out of sight from violent nights he delicately avoids mentioning to Foggy - bandages and sprains tucked away under fitted, respectable clothes. Foggy pushes the thoughts away, because it only ever makes him scared and angry to think about the dire places Matt goes to recklessly help others to the point of masochism.

It’s not that hard to let the up-ticking anger stop in its tracks though staring at the naked skin exposed now, spellbinding. Foggy's shamefully aware that he has thought about kissing Matt right over the soft vulnerable flesh there, more times than he can count in innocent moments day to day in their lives together. He couldn’t imagine wanting it more than he has already, but here they are, and Foggy is so hungry. He's a parched man in the desert; he wishes he could curl into the curve of his neck and drink up the sounds he’s making right next to the source. The desire is so bottomless it hurts.

When Matt reaches for the cupcake again, he looks like he hates it with every fiber of his being.

Foggy finally finds his voice. “Holy shit,” he says, ragged and a little shaken. “You weren’t kidding.”

Matt shakes his head drunkenly, pulls the wrapper back with uncharacteristically unsteady fingers, and takes another moderately sized bite. He chews methodically through a groan as he sets the cake down again. Suddenly Matt tenses and Foggy jumps as Matt’s other fist drops to hit the desk, loud, flat handed and grasping, and then again, with a closed fist as he fights against whatever it’s doing to him, despite that being the point of this whole thing. But Foggy imagines it’s hard to get past letting anyone, even your best friend, see you succumb to what amounts to sexual kryptonite.

Matt catches his breath after a moment and then reaches for the cupcake again, small sputtering sounds falling from his lips.

Foggy is trying to keep his own breathing in check as his heartbeat thunders louder and louder under his shirt, the cotton now uncomfortably rough on his skin. He’s oversensitive everywhere and aching, so hard already it’s not fair. Even if this wasn’t a wet dream come true for Foggy in the weirdest possible way, sympathetically it’s a lot to take in. Because even if this wasn’t Matt, who Foggy feels for more than most anyone, Foggy doesn’t think he’s ever seen someone so intensely turned on in person in his whole life. The fact that it _is_ Matt just makes it that much tougher to deny his own heart’s, and, more horribly and immediately, his body’s insistent response. Foggy shifts in his seat, dick straining against his trousers and begging for _something, anything_ . But he can’t do anything about it because this is a bet, it’s just a _bet_. And he’s pretty sure he’s about to lose.

“Why red velvet?” Foggy asks, because he can’t just sit here ogling in silence like a pervert without feeling obvious.

“No idea,” Matt grits out after he swallows.

“How…” Foggy starts, breathless. “How did you even find this out?”

Matt breaks off a piece of the cupcake and brings it to his lips. He makes a small mournful sound, dove-like, and pushes the bite into his mouth, humming desperately around it, followed by a sudden shift of posture that Foggy can definitely tell, God help him, is Matt grinding his hips before he can stop himself. Matt makes a low guttural sound and answers, “Classmate’s birthday party. Seventeen years old.”

Foggy wonders if the pitch forward Matt gives right after is caused by the memory of it.

“I don’t think anyone could tell, but,” Matt licks his lips, stained and bitten red, and thrusts his hips again abortively, his mouth opening on a brief, silent moan. He gathers himself for a moment, huffs out, “I came right there, in front of everyone.”

“Shit.” Foggy can imagine it, and feels impossibly dirtier than he thought he could already.

The room is so heavy with the smell of Matt and warm sugar and cocoa it’s hard to breathe. It feels like he’s been in this chair watching Matt suspended in arousal for hours, even though he knows logically it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. Matt is halfway through the cupcake, and his fingers and mouth are greasy and obscene when he licks his lips. The skin of his face and neck is pink like he’s been in the sun for too long, and dewey too, shirt collar below darkened slightly with fresh sweat. 

He looks more beautiful, raw, and defenseless than Foggy has ever seen before.

And Foggy knows this is too far. He shouldn’t be seeing this, he shouldn’t know what this looks like, or be hearing these secrets when he feels the way he does about Matt, but Matt just keeps going.

“And then, as I was rushing to the bathroom to clean up, it happened again,” he strains, takes another bite, and hums a little uneven sound as he sucks icing off of his fingers. He gasps, but the quirk his mouth gives makes it ambiguously laugh-like as he confesses, “And again.” Foggy shudders out the breath in his lungs, molten desire washing through him. “Had to wash my mouth out with soap to make it stop.”

Foggy is doomed. He’s never going to be able to jerk off to anything but this fact about Matt, this intensive and potent study he’s getting of him in this state, for the rest of his life. And worst of all, he’s done this to himself. He walked right into this. Matt sinks his teeth into the cupcake and tenses again, hard. He’s wound so tight, it’s hurting Foggy to watch. Matt bumps the desk with his knee in his abandon, and makes a sound – thin, high, and needy – and Foggy’s feels like he could come out of his own skin. He's so hard he's gone wet, and he hates how much he wants to touch himself, how much he wants to touch Matt. Right now. To get up and walk over and place his hands on him and ruin this whole bet, ruin everything they have as friends, all the years of platonic trust, by closing the space between them, pushing up close and kissing him, deeply and finally, finally, _finally_ helping Matt find release after so long on the edge, after so many years of his own yearning drawn out like a special, quiet torture. Because really, how different has it felt for Foggy to need someone so entirely for so long? Always almost at the breaking point?

He makes no move, but the distance there still feels far from safe.

And Foggy can tell with heart-skipping certainty that Matt is close, that any second now Matt is going to come; a body can only look so strained for so long before the inevitable. And predictably, Foggy is fighting the urge to run, or to call stop on this whole thing, because Foggy is suddenly unsure he can live with knowing what this looks like in such detail. Of being responsible in any way for it happening. But the words stay tight in his throat.

There’s no turning back now, Foggy knows. He’s here and it’s happening – they are free falling, the cliff left long ago – and despite his heart pulling him all over in a panicked rage for allowing this, there’s absolutely nowhere else Foggy would be right now.

So Foggy let’s himself have this as the moment closes in like a roaring train - Matt so gloriously lost and disheveled and in his pricey suit right on the edge, and it looks so perfectly wrong. Simultaneously professional and slutty. There’s a little curl to Matt’s lip as he pants, and Foggy can see the whisper of the Devil there. Foggy feels a sourness in his gut at the thought, but the flames of his longing grow as he thinks of that strength, that determination, that superhuman skill that is all a part of Matt, who is letting him see him vulnerable and exposed like this. Something about it breaks Foggy a little. A tenderness creeps in and steals his breath away. He wishes he could show Matt how beautiful he is to him. Now. Just get down on his knees in front of Matt and… he bites his lip until he tastes copper, and just like that, Matt starts to unravel.

Matt chokes off a whine, and then pulls himself together enough to spit out, “Fuck, Foggy, I can smell how turned on you are from here.”

Foggy lets out his breath in a rush, as a searing dart of humiliation stabs through him. He may cave in from it. God, he may die. He stupidly puts his hand over the front of his fly like somehow he can still hide this, and stutters, “I’m— I’m sorry” over the overwhelming embarrassment that thrillingly only amplifies his own want.

“No, it’s…” Matt falters, picking up the last bite of cupcake but dropping it back into its wrapper through trembling fingers, those now empty hands stubbornly curling into fists again to press back against the desk. His head falls forward, wincing and exhaling a thready gasp, mouth wide. “It’s perfect,” he barely makes out, like it’s taking all of his effort in a self-preserving last ditch attempt on the part of his ego to avoid the final degradation of this, to stop himself from tipping over the imminent apex he’s teetering on the edge of. It doesn’t make any difference though because his breath hitches sharply, and Foggy knows this is it – Matt helplessly pivots his hips up into nothing, holding his breath, and with another full body curl in and up out of his chair, he comes.

It’s as violent as a storm. It crashes through him. He shakes and cries out through clenched teeth as he thrusts, again and again, his body taking over completely. And as Matt exhales his breath on one last gorgeous, broken sound of surrender, Foggy can’t help but briefly close his eyes and feel the heat of it, like he’s standing in the fallout of a blast of pleasure so intense he couldn’t possibly be able to understand unless he was in Matt’s super sensitive and specific skin. He consciously opens his eyes to watch Matt come down, watch his lips, rosy and wet, mouth at the air and sigh with exasperated relief.

Matt slumps forward, panting like he’s run a marathon, and even that sends a throb through Foggy. A few moments pass where the only sounds is Matt catching his breath and then Matt raises himself onto his elbows, still breathless, his eyes heavy-lidded, expression drunk and bewildered.

Foggy takes a trembling breath of his own, because he has to say something now, right? Right now. He has to bring them back from what just happened. To make it funny – just a gross joke, a dare between friends. Because they’re friends, and they can’t have this be weird. Any weirder than it just got anyway. Face value, this has to mean nothing but a strange game of chicken for a few bucks. Not the brand it’s burned into Foggy’s mind forever. Not the paper-torn-in-half of Foggy’s heart now he’s on the other side of something he’ll never see again except in his memory.

“So I owe you… uh,” Foggy clears his throat. His voice sounds way too tight. “I owe you...”

Matt lifts one hand and gestures, exertion-clumsy, for Foggy to come over. Foggy’s heart jumps with apprehension. He can’t get close to Matt like this. He’s still hard enough that standing will be shameful even if Matt can only sense it, and will make this cover up he’s shoddily patching together an obvious farce. He can’t see Matt like this any closer up or he might incinerate. He doesn’t think he has the courage to move at all, but he finds his feet just like that, like he’s a trained pup when it comes to Matt, at his beck and call. Just as devoted and besotted too.

With the adequate amount of mortification, Foggy adjusts himself quickly and takes the few steps to the desk and around to the side where Matt is slightly facing out. And God, just as Foggy feared, it’s even harder to be this near him – Matt glistening with sweat, the deep color of his lips either from being bitten red or from the dye, Foggy can’t tell, but it’s gorgeous anyway. And at the high points of his cheekbones there’s red too. Just too damn pretty for words. 

As Foggy makes an attempt at a stealthy steadying breath, he smells him, and, dammit, Matt smells absolutely incredible. Matt doesn’t wear cologne for obvious sensory reasons. All of his detergent and soap is unscented too. So it’s all Matt. It’s that green grass and sunshine scent of him that he just naturally puts off, heady and hot now as a Summer day, and Foggy thinks he’s probably just imagining it, but he swears he can smell the sharp Clorox smell of come on him too. Foggy reflexively licks his lips as he takes in Matt from above, afraid to speak, and also completely at a loss for words anyway. His brain is a loading screen, a mantra of _so pretty, so pretty, so pretty._

Matt looks up towards him, gaze unfocused, but expression charged with an intensity that makes Foggy’s heart skip again, and Foggy realizes with no small amount of terror, that his heart rate is picking up and Matt can _hear_ that, can hear just how bad of a liar he is when it comes to his feelings for him, and maybe always has been able to. Matt makes a soft, sexy, little sound as he closes his eyes for a moment then raises his eyes up towards Foggy’s face again in what looks like expectation. Foggy isn’t going to pass whatever test this is. He can’t. He can’t guess what Matt wants, because what _Foggy_ wants he makes it a point to never slip up on, and Matt wouldn’t be-- _couldn’t be_ waiting for him to make a move.

“Matt…” Foggy starts and then Matt gently, slowly wraps Foggy’s tie around one hand and pulls him down, dizzy and in shock, towards him, reaching over with his other hand and lifting the last bite up to Foggy’s face. His mouth opens, a hint to Foggy to mirror it, and Foggy obeys.

Foggy’s mouth is full of rich sweetness as Matt pulls him just that much further down to his knees, just that much closer and asks, face to face, sex rough and sinful, “Good?”

Foggy’s mouth is presently glued shut with baked goods, but even if it wasn’t, he’d be unable to answer. His ability to form a coherent reply is long gone, burnt out like a fuse. He swallows finally, and nods, knows Matt can sense the movement this close, and shivers a bit at the mystery of just how much Matt can sense from him right now. What does he feel like to Matt? How desperate does Foggy come across in his superhero sensory world? Can he tell from the skipping of Foggy’s heart that he’s not only seconds from combusting with want, he’s completely in love? Foggy’s in love with him. And what _is_ this? 

Despite common opinions about lawyers, Foggy really can’t deny the evidence here. He can see in his mind how this looks, how everything here points to Matt wanting Foggy this close, just setting him up to enact this all consuming wish Foggy can’t even express outloud, can’t even think about for long around Matt without feeling criminal. 

“I’m reading this wrong,” Foggy finally blurts out, brain back online in a short burst of panic. “I _have_ to be reading this wrong.”

Matt laughs, soft and warm. He brings his other hand to Foggy’s cheek, moving it to his chin, and then, finding the corner of Foggy’s mouth with his index finger, zeros in with intention and brings Foggy’s lips to his.

Matt tastes like icing and buttery chocolate, and, oh, under that, and even better, he tastes familiar as a favorite song. It’s more sumptuous than any dream Foggy’s ever had, any frenzied and detailed fantasy in moments alone. And as he sinks into it and hesitantly places a hand on Matt’s shoulder, Matt deepens the kiss, opening his mouth to lick into Foggy’s with a ferociousness that almost topples Foggy back. Before Foggy can stumble, Matt clasps at Foggy’s free hand and frantically places it right between his legs, where Matt’s still hot and wet and still so hard Foggy almost can’t believe it, even as his hand wraps around Matt’s dick through the silky-thin slide of fine wool and he feels Matt shift enthusiastically into his grip as he pulls Foggy back in to kiss him, again, with both hands holding onto Foggy for dear life.

He realizes in a split second after Matt’s tongue is deep in his mouth again, that Matt is tasting him, sucking him down with the last traces of that red velvet concoction that turns Matt into a mess all by itself. And instead of the tense relinquishing of control that Foggy just got to witness, Matt is completely fluid and surging like a swell in the sea into Foggy’s hand, into him, bucking up and crying out softly into Foggy’s mouth as he comes a second time into his grip.

As the world around them settles into focus again, Matt huffs out a laugh as he relaxes into Foggy and wearily noses against Foggy’s shoulder. Foggy self-consciously thinks how it would be really nice if his adrenaline output would calm down because Foggy is shaking like a leaf. He wishes he could be a little better at dealing with this for just a moment considering. Because surely he _should_ be better to be where he is right now. To have his hands on Matt, to be being held by him. That doubt is blown away like mist as Matt sighs into the cove of Foggy’s neck and admits, “If you knew how long I’ve been waiting to show you that trick.”

Foggy’s brain takes a beat to catch up to that, along with processing the rest of the last few moments, and when it does, he leans back flummoxed. For a minute all he can do is stare down at Matt, mouth agape. “You planned this?”

Matt hums. The look on his face is considering, but tender. “Not exactly. But the way opened.”

“You sound way too much like a priest right now," Foggy admonishes, hands moving to a more innocent area atop Matt's thighs.

Matt is beaming when Foggy braves looking at him again, and they both laugh then.

“You knew,” Foggy says, embarrassed by the certainty of it now.

“I knew,” Matt says fondly. “I just didn’t know how to broach the subject, having the advantage. Or if you even wanted me to.”

“You’re a shameless showoff, Murdock.”

Matt shrugs in acquiescence.

Foggy takes a deep breath, lets it out, and scoots back enough to be courteous. Matt probably wants to clean up. “Well, that is the hottest thing that has ever happened to me ever in my entire life.”

Foggy shifts his weight over to one side to start to stand, but Matt fills the space that Foggy gave him by falling down onto his knees and in a few swift movements unbuckles Foggy’s belt. His voice resonates through Foggy, the heat of his exhale right at his waist as he lowers himself down. “And we’re not even done yet.”

**Author's Note:**

> Much thanks to Nico for beta/cheerleading!
> 
> Title is from [Sugar On My Tongue by Talking Heads.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vDVQO67NCZ4)
> 
> I am [on tumblr!](https://cassandraleeds.tumblr.com/) Come say hi! :D


End file.
